


One More Shot

by ruric



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-02
Updated: 2006-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="azrayal.livejournal.com/">azrayal</a> asked for Lindsey/Lorne, beer and sunflowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Shot

One too many beers with tequila chasers and the room lists crazily to the left. Lindsey’s palms hit the bar, fingers splayed wide, trying to force his body upright against the force exerted by gravity well that seems to have opened just beyond his left shoulder.

A soft huff of laughter whispers into his ear, long green fingers closing over his right arm and a warm body presses tight against his back, from hips to shoulders, offering support.

He’s squinting at the hand that reaches over his shoulder, trying to get past fuzzy and bring it into focus, when a practised twist of a green wrist sends the remaining shot glass sliding down the bar.

“I think you’ve had more than enough of those tonight, Sweetcheeks.”

And if there’s one thing Lindsey will never get used to in his incredibly fucked up beyond belief life, it’s the sight and sound of a six foot tall green demon with hellfire red eyes calling him Sweetcheeks. It should offend his dignity, it should piss him the hell off but it doesn’t.

Lorne’s fingers tighten their grip and Lindsey’s practically lifted off the bar stool. His arm snakes around Lorne’s waist, fingers snagging in material for support when his knees threaten to give out. Lindsey’s cheek brushes silk, his eyes closing against a shirt so garishly coloured it threatens to make his brains bleed out of his ears.

“Come on Sugar, come and sleep it off upstairs.”

He sucks in a breath to make a protest but his tongue is too thick and heavy in his mouth to form words. The last coherent thought he has before the world fades to grey is that he’ll never understand why Lorne always smells of sunflowers.


End file.
